Angel is the Centerfold (Narrated by Death)
by DreamsOfPari
Summary: Dean is badly injured, and who should come to save him but our favorite trench-coat wearing angel? Oh, and Death has a front row seat (but doesn't he always?) wing!kink in a...classy way; rated T for now...
1. Prologue

The frequency in which I see the Winchesters is, quite frankly, alarming. So many times have I held the hand of the Righteous Man (a fact to which this Winchester in particular is not so partial to), he who has known infinite more deaths than the youngest. Although to be fair, I have met with Sam on more than one occasion.

_**A fact to be acknowledged about Dean Winchester**_

_He has, without fail, each time shown me_

_his everlasting perseverance. And though I _

_acknowledge it will not serve him in the afterlife, I will forever_

_remember Dean Winchester, the man who_

_never rests, lest the world come to a halt,_

_complete in its immediacy._


	2. Chapter 1

I often associate a bereavement with an emotion.

- In their ignorance, humans illude themselves into believing I feel nothing. That I am cold. The gatekeeper to a void of nothing into which lies only the abyss. In fact, this is mere lore, fiction you humans decided fit my "persona," and one I am not at all flattered by. Albeit the idea of a scythe-wielding hooded-figure amuses me.

I have on hand a number of human stories I have kept categorized to a given feeling. I have discovered, after an eternity of my profession-and witnessing the human phenomena-that mental state at the time of passing confesses all that life withstood to obscure.

_**A truth about myself**_

_I am compassionate. Though I cannot simply cease _

_the completion of my task, I do so in no malice._

Above all, sadness leaks through the layers of mortality. A desperation that comes from the absolute knowledge of termination. The blue becomes a vessel for the soul, a soul I carry from the body and ferry from Earth, the penultimate fate to which the last decision is not made by me and in no way under my control.

There is a certain brand of sadness that slinks its way from the heart, despite the ruination when I come, to which the only appropriate response is to weep and howl in the face of such an undue offense. At intervals, this sadness encompasses the spirit in thick, oozing layers, polluting the air around it like a cancer. It departs in sadness and leaves only more behind.

_**An example of such an occurrence**_

_Mary Winchester_

On lesser occasions, I have come upon a varying degree of humans plumed in a shroud of anger. An all-consuming hatred for the world and any being within it. These are the most heartbreaking.

_**A reassurement**_

_I have a heart. And it is more than capable of human feeling._

A moment of silence please. For all the lost mortals who have not had the fortune to be loved, to love, and have thus suffered in the heat of the unjust. For those who have only known the hatred, whether it be raw and untapped, passionate in the new fury of their own minds, or those who have allowed the anger to fester, to flake away their compassion like old paint on an abandoned house, swing set in the front yard long ago forgotten, having held only bitterness in the squeaky rusted chains. None deserves a fate such as this, and I feel their hopelessness deep in my core. Forever and ever, Amen.


	3. Chapter 2

I have lived (can death live? Seems a bit contradictory) for longer than an eternity. I have always been, and I have always seen.

Castiel is a character, I mean honestly. An angel, of _TheLord, _with an affinity towards an alcoholic (sin), killing machine (sin), swearing (sin), _man _who holds no qualms with the _repeated _act of premarital sex (also a sin). Angel plus human has not exactly computed in the past.

Now I don't know about you, but something appears amiss in this love equation. What could hold Castiel's attention like this, almost like an obsession? Maybe you don't know, but I do. Perhaps I will tell you later-Did you hear that? It sounds like a soul readying for departure. Excuse me, but I must attend a dying mortal, there is Chardonnay awaiting you by the window.

_Mr. Winchester, what a pleasure._..


	4. Chapter 3

_A check-in with Castiel and his hunter._

Cas' giant raven wings filled the cramped space, tenderly wrapping around the unconscious figure on the motel bed. Dark, glimmering feathers caressed Dean's face, his arms, his sides, healing and soothing as they softly pass over every bruise and scrape. Tears had already dried on the angel's face, crusted in the creases and worry wrinkles, making Cas look years older. _Dean was an absolute __**magnet **__for danger. _Cas thought as another feather passed gently over one of his hunter's bruised eyes. Cas ran his fingertips through Dean's hair, his grace wiping away dried blood from the strands, slowly healing the migraine Dean would have awoken to.

It was dark in the room, the only one left available as the angel half carried half dragged the battered hunter to the single bed. So Cas had sat, scooting up to rest his back against the wall in the middle of suspiciously stained coverlet, his human nearly defeated _again. _When Cas had found Dean, he thought himself too late. The hunter was barely breathing, his heart all but halted completely. Carnage lay everywhere as evidence of the fight. Severed limbs and oozing blood spilt everywhere. The few windows of the house were broken, glass twinkling like the stars that shined outside.

The angel felt his stomach drop to the floor when his eyes landed on the still figure of the one person in existence whose death he would never recover from. Cas had fallen to his knees beside Dean, who was sprawled on his back, limbs at unnatural angles, blood pooling underneath his body in a gruesome mockery. The slippery red stained his trousers and dripped from his hands in grotesque ways as Cas lifted Dean's head up to rest in his lap. Cas had immediately gone to work stabilizing vitals.

…..

The angel let his grace flow freely into the human, even more powerful when his love flowed through Dean's veins, too. Cas nearly wept with relief when Dean coughed , spluttering out in a painful breath when he gasped out a breath in his stiff lungs.

Dean's eyes were unseeing, the usual bright green orbs a clouded, dull forest. The muted tone of Dean's eyes was soon covered again by heavy lids, a half formed _Cas_ on cracked and bloodied lips. Cas put a dripping hand to the side of the hunter's face, impossibly blue eyes consumed with concern. He would be damned _(oh, the irony) _if he couldn't save his beloved. Cas continued his work, caressing and restoring.

As Dean's skin was patched together, Cas grew calmer, confident in his work.

But when there was a blockage in the healing, everything at once seemed lost.


End file.
